


3:1-15

by KKGlinka



Series: Red Skies [1]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KKGlinka/pseuds/KKGlinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonnibel is queen when responsibility catches up with Marceline. It's going to take more than an axe and some shape-shifting to save her friends — and adopted homeland — when the Lich comes, leading an army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:1-15

The Mushroom War didn't happen overnight. It happened in bits and pieces, minor unremarkable events falling into a deadly pattern, just like the current one. There were different kingdoms back then, and different titles for the rulers. Some were called countries, nations and corporations and the rulers were called everything between Abadeer and Zoltar. First there was a small fight on the TV, then a slightly bigger fight on all the channels and then the reception went out. Her mother was dead, her father was missing and strangers would point at her and say 'mutant', if they were being nice. 

Which she was, when it came down to it. Granted, she wasn't a mutant the same way the remaining people were, sickly and dying, born malformed and choking on their own blood, turned black with disease or into neon green abominations. There were plenty of people all tucked away in tiny pockets around the world — but not enough who weren't sick to keep going. Insufficient genetic diversity, Bonnibel once told her. The only person around to watch them die with her was Simon but he had been hiding in the shelter of his royal fantasy by then. Her father didn't count. Her father thought it was funny, if he considered it at any length at all, or a mildly fascinating distraction, a science experiment gone wrong. Or right, from another perspective. 

Marceline had never had a formal education because society was crumbling from nuclear war when Simon found her, but he knew that. He was smart, educated and full of science and did his best to teach her what he knew. He was also full of secrets that she failed to recognize on account of being a little girl, until the crown took his soul and mind away from him, and her. 

What Marceline did know was that she had been born late in the year two–thousand twelve, discounting several thousands more that came before an arbitrary zero. It was the year that some calendar ended, so the world was supposed to end too, but it didn't so everyone laughed. But she was born and no one thought to label her the Antichrist except for some of the goofier neighbors down the street. According to that version, which wasn't particularly scientific but pretty darn magical, the entire Mushroom War was her fault. 

Well it wasn't. There was a difference between being a herald — let the angels sing — and pushing too many red buttons. The Lich caused the war in his attempt to bring order to the universe by eliminating the chaos called life. Or, more accurately, he ended the war by manipulating some humans into summoning it to use in a magic nuclear bomb. The Mushroom War wasn't her fault but it was supposed to be her job — as the heir apparent to the Nightosphere — to ensure chaos continued merrily on its stubborn way. Somehow, that was evil and it made her a monster, and people like Bonnibel kept insisting that Marceline was disrupting order and reason, as if she didn't care. 

But then, words like apocalypse, god, nuclear war and humanity were ancient, historical notions to Bonnibel. She also thought mushrooms had something to do with it, unless that was her dry, straight–faced humor at work. Marceline tried to set her straight once, so many years ago, but she could swear the years kept repeating themselves, from one to ninety–nine and over again. She had tried to explain, and Bonnibel had listened attentively, then begun debating the lesson as if it were a philosophical discussion. 

It was such a big fucking joke. That was a joke, too. Sometimes Marceline would swear a blue streak but the words were so alien, so ancient, that they were no longer shocking. They meant nothing at all beyond the heated emphasis behind them, as irrelevant as her memories. Which was actually hilarious if one considered that time was essentially standing still. 

Humans had gone extinct, one lone remnant notwithstanding, and the magical mutant creatures that developed in their wake recreated rulers in humanity's image. Maybe bits and pieces of humans were left over and that was why so many beings on modern Ooo were bipedal. Or maybe it was an Earth thing because while time wasn't actually frozen in place, there were cycles of repetition, a bit like her relationship with Princess Bubblegum.

Perhaps she had run out of patience with it, too bored to cope with more of the same.

She wished she hadn't known any of it. She wished she hadn't been seduced by the offer to live forever just because she was surrounded by so much death. She wished she could have clung longer to being eighteen. But that was part of the cosmic joke too, hoo hoo. If she had done her job to begin with rather than freak out the first time she met her dad, she never would have been turned into a vampire, never been forced to choose between endurance or death. Then again, if her father had done his job, the Lich would have never entered the mortal realm.

Well, she was doing her job now, though it was hard to remember with the amulet around her neck, muddling the remnants of her human thoughts. She wondered if that's how Simon felt: always trying to fetch back Betty, never remembering why he felt driven to kidnap Bonnibel to begin with, making up reasons that seemed to make sense. Well, moot point. She had been forced to kill him. 

Wreaking havoc and leveling the playing field is her job, so she stood on bright green grass with rainbows overhead and smiled broadly with an army at her back. She looked at Queen Bonnibel, armored under noxious layers of pink regalia and real armor too, if caramel shells counted. Peppermint Butler stood beside her, a stout, bitter circle but Marceline could see him tremble, though in his case, it might be due to anticipation of devouring someone's flesh. Everyone behind the queen was shaking and a few even exploded, messy fillings everywhere. It was such a pitiful army with its taffy banners and candy corn cannons. 

The only one not shaking was Finn, but he was a man now, rather than the lanky teen caught between adolescence and adulthood that she had last seen, and wore the trappings of one. His hat had been replaced by a helmet, his clothing with armor, dented and mismatched, but still passingly impressive and he carried a familiar sword. Beside him, Jake bristled at her, forming a mouthful of fangs. She wanted to praise him for his new–found courage.

Unintentionally, her eyes met Finn's and she held her breath, expecting recriminations. Instead, he looked back and forth between the two monarchs in a manner that would have indicated youthful naivety once, but now revealed miserable comprehension. 

She looked back at Bonnibel, who hadn't moved, hadn't twitched a proverbial muscle and Marceline remembered how gum dries out and gets brittle with age. That was the trouble with simulacrums housing not quite human souls. She grinned until she felt her face splitting, trying to bloat and reform into something with horns, but restrained the metamorphosis just as her father could. Her hair prickled with the anticipatory energy of the demons and monsters behind her, but there was protocol to follow. But it was one she couldn't share with Bonnibel aloud without admitting to a slight act of legal deception, so that smile kept her teeth clenched shut on a desperate plea that Bonnibel make the smart choice. 

Finally, Bonnibel raised her chin slightly and her eyes seemed to glow purple, but that was the reflection of the amulet. Her fingers tightened around the scepter doubling as a weapon, but it seemed she wouldn't speak. Maybe she couldn't. 

Fine. Marceline looked past the tiny army meeting them on the field, looked at the ridiculous castle and walls shielding terrified, artificially sweet citizens. It was going to be a mess soon, all sour, burnt sugar melted together revealing the carbon black base. 

She softened her fang–laden grin into a smile and sing–songed, "Hoo, hoo, who let the dogs out?" 

* * *

Queen Bonnibel Bubblegum hadn't lived quite as long as Marceline, flitted off anytime things got too hard and boring, or frittered away her life playing games or indulging in 'red fury' to wake up hungover the next evening. She didn't destroy her enemies; she out–smarted them with words, strategy and tactics. After all, what was she supposed to do? Blow bubbles at them? That wouldn't work but it was her chosen duty, among many others, to safeguard her kingdom and citizens. 

So she educated herself as best she could, studying every science and philosophy, every text she could acquire. She memorized ancient weapons, time–tested battle tactics, and she trained herself to think ahead of her enemies. She learned how to play three–dimensional chess on a whim but it turned out to be ridiculously easy because the basic structure was what she practiced every day in courtly negotiations. She had created candy warriors stupid enough not to scare easily but smart enough to follow simple commands. The project had consumed a gross amount of natural resources, but she couldn't rely on one man and his magical dog to battle an army.

She had monitored Sweet Pea as he aged, always keeping a civil distance from Tree Trunks and Mr. Pig's family. She never voiced her concerns about the possibility that the Lich remained within the regressed, resurrected body of Billy the Hero. She never interfered with the boy's upbringing and allowed herself to hope that he would remain as kind and loving as he seemed. Perhaps she had hoped too much so when the Lich used new tactics to gradually seduce allies to his cause, she noticed the pattern of odd behaviors too late.

Every force that opposed him was absorbed into the ranks of his mind–controlled army until the remaining free kingdoms turned to her for a solution. Eventually, her calculations, spies and Peppermint's scrying had indicated that an invasion of her kingdom was imminent. The rotting army was coming. White always had the advantage because it went first, so Bonnibel was on the palace lawn doing her best to bolster her troops when lookouts identified the second force marching on the castle. An army that emerged from a wide maw where the horizon split apart into massive red portal. 

She couldn't cry because it was, first of all, pointless and her subjects relied on the example set by her. If she showed the slightest measure of fear, there would never be a battle or any resistance. There wouldn't even be a surrender, because all her subjects would have died of fright. Consequently, when Marceline the Vampire Queen arrived, Bonnibel met her on the field and refused to budge as she considered her alternatives. Logistically, a victory for the Candy Kingdom had become impossible. 

Queens were such unpredictable pieces. 

She looked the same as the last time Bonnibel had seen her, except that Marceline wore an impeccable black suit, lavender shirt and red tie topped with a purple crystal. She wondered if it was worse to have a crown on one's head or wrapped around one's neck. Perhaps one seemed more ornamental or the other understated, but she was desperately relieved not to see the crown. 

As Marceline approached, walking on the ground, a trail of dead, brown footprints collecting behind her, she smiled. It grew into a monstrous grin, though her eyes remained a placid reptilian green, her hair still and coiled loose behind her. When she folded her hands behind her back, Bonnibel expected to hear a legal proposal spill out her mouth. But she remained silent as soft huffs, grumbles and grunts were issued from the horde of monsters behind her. 

Bonnibel gave in to a small frisson of fear, gripping her scepter more tightly. An ancient edict prevented demons from traveling outside the Nightosphere, yet here were several hundred of them. It also seemed that taking over the family business had turned Marceline barking mad. Either that, or she was passing on a message from the Cosmic Owl, which seemed unlikely. 

Either way, she was barking and singing. Maybe she had worn the crown. Maybe it had driven her insane. 

Several years ago, Marceline had begun spending longer periods in the Nightosphere. Bonnibel's first assumption had been that she was sulking, angry again that a working monarch had no time for company or self–indulgence. She grew increasingly distant with each return, until she didn't come back at all, but there was no practical course of action for Bonnibel to take as the Lich and his army scorched Ooo. The fact that she missed the smug, lumping whiner was fundamentally irrelevant. That they could have used her help was damning.

She didn't see Marceline again until the Ice King pulled his usual hijinks one time too many. Maybe if she hadn't been sleep–deprived, had been more attentive, if Finn hadn't been spending more and more time with the Flame Princess in some on again, off again cycle, the unpleasantness could have been avoided. She wouldn't have been going stiff from the cold, sitting in a rotten jail cell, wasting precious time while listening to him babble. 

Marceline did not fly into the cave, but arrived in a congealing mist as the Ice King began screaming and ranting, waving his arms frantically attempting to dispel the black smoke. His struggles did no good, the mist winding around, taunting him with disembodied laughter before Marceline appeared. 

The Ice King was panting in fury, spittle collecting on his beard, adding to existing grime. "Go away! I have her! She's mine!" 

Marceline walked. She walked and her feet left steam curling up from the ground, which was odd because Bonnibel had never known her body to be anything but lukewarm. Her footsteps hissed and it seemed her feet sank slightly into the frozen ground as it softened. 

The Ice King edged around her nervously, rubbing his hands, making small distressed noises. 

"No," she said casually when his hands twitched as if he meant to raise them. 

He shuffled anxiously for a minute, maybe more, while Marceline hummed tunelessly. She had no bass or guitar, nothing except herself in a depressing black suit. The only spot of color was the large, purple amulet topping her tie, and her eyes flashing teal, then red on black. 

Bonnibel held her breath, and scooted into a recessed corner of the cell, behind a jut of ice. It didn't offer much protection, but there was a reason Marcy hadn't greeted her, hadn't moved toward the bars, hadn't drawn her attention. There had to be, if she still cared enough to come at all. 

"How are you, Simon?" 

His whole body twitched, his slump vanished as his head came up, brows lowered. He raised his arms offensively. "Ice King! Ice King! I'm a wizard and you're dead! Marceline's gone away!" 

"Well, that's true," she answered with a smile — such a tolerant smile — only the tips of her canines peeping out past her lips. Marceline wandered over to his drum set, tapping an aged, tarnished cymbal with one finger. She established a soft, tinny beat, humming again. "Do you remember the song you liked to sing? To everything, turn, turn, turn…?" 

Ice King started shaking, arms spread and he screamed as blue bolts shot from his hands, "Time time time!" 

"Yes, that's right." Marceline held up a hand, still more interested in the drum set, still tapping the cymbal and the blue bolt stopped dead in a fountain of white snow, powder falling into a soft pile at her feet. She sang in a plaintive warble, a lullaby, "I swear it's not too late." 

Bonnibel hoped she wouldn't die in a stupid cave, feeling sorry for a crazy old man. She tucked herself more tightly into the corner and waited, silent, curling and uncurling her hands to keep them from going rigid. 

"You can't stop me! It's my world, it's mine and…and…" He began mumbling furiously, then burst out, light crackling around his entire body as he floated, "It's too late for you!" 

"You wanted to save the world. Do you remember, Simon?" 

"Stop calling me that!" he screeched, his voice cracking. 

He couldn't see, but Bonnibel could. Marceline's face transformed, mouth widening into a grimace and she hissed, eyes blazing red. She whipped around as the Ice King threw another bolt at her, and she walked forward as it dispersed into more snowflakes that hissed and steamed off her body. 

"Simon, Simon, Simon. Simon says," she taunted, nonsensically. 

"No, no, no!" He shouted back angrily, desperately floating backward as tears began to trickle down his bony cheeks. "It's not fair!" 

And Marceline inhaled, flicked a finger and he fell down unconscious. A squirming, translucent soul was in her fist, squealing and shrieking. She held it like that until Simon's soul quit wriggling, listening to the morbid lullaby. Then she tipped her head back, jaw opening so wide it became a maw of jagged teeth, and ate him. 

"You can stop hiding now, Bonnie," Marceline announced, pointing at the Ice King's corpse with a serenely bored expression. 

Bonnibel shielded her eyes a the flash of violet light. Then she watched as Marceline picked up a pair of broken spectacles, turning them over in her hands, before tucking them into a suit pocket. 

"Why did you…I thought you loved him." she asked, standing stiffly, careful so as not to break her legs. It was so globbing cold. 

"'Because I do," Marceline answered, ripping the cell door off its hinges. "But that's none of your biz." 

Bonnibel tightened her lips over the rude put–down, but it was typical and, at least, familiar. She knew Ice King had been named Simon Petrikov; she had watched the old video tapes with Finn and the others. She also knew he hated being called that, and that he hadn't really been Simon in a long time. Still, for Marceline to murder him so callously…

She busied herself straightening her clothes as best as possible, extricating her hair from where it had gotten wet against the wall, so she missed part of what happened next. When she looked over, Marceline was holding the Ice King's crown, examining it thoughtfully. There was something…something… 

Bonnibel ran as fast as she could the short distance, grabbing Marceline's arm without thought, as if she could stop her. Peripherally, she was aware that her hand didn't melt because the arm underneath was cold as ice. 

"Don't! Marcy, don't!" 

It hadn't stopped Marceline from plopping the crown on her head at a jaunty angle, picking up a drum stick and rattling out a beat against a worn cymbal, a smile playing on her face. 

It was almost worse when Gunter and a batch of penguins arrived, attempting to swarm Marceline. Mostly, because of the mess it made, bits of blood, gore and small bones sprayed in a circle. The lone survivor was a subdued Gunter herself, whom Marceline tucked under her arm. 

Bonnibel had seen a great deal of death and undeath over the years. She had always known that the vampire harbored a vicious, vengeful destructive streak, but the friend she remembered had always done her the courtesy of…of what? Being a demon, being herself, elsewhere? She looked down at her dress, already ruined by the pointless kidnapping. Now there was a swatch of red decorating her hem. 

Marceline had laughed again. "Hey there, Peppermint Patty." 

Bonnibel had started screaming at her and refused a lift home. In retrospect, it was mortifying. She had been impossibly rude and ungrateful, granted, but was that any reason to destroy a kingdom? 

She broke out of her reverie when Marceline stopped singing. 

One of the demons moved, an excited lurch forward, and Marceline's head snapped around, eyes flashing bright. The unfortunate demon was turned inside out, all blue and green pulsating flesh, and its arms and legs began to thrash. It managed to scream, lungs shuddering, but no one stepped up to interfere. 

"Stop it," said Bonnibel, after she heard one too many pops from behind her. It was worth a try. 

Marceline snapped her fingers and the demon flipped back, fell to its knees, then crawled back into the group. "There's your tongue. I thought someone might've eaten it." 

"You don't need to be crass," Bonnibel said in automatic reprimand, bobbing her head politely to compensate. "May I ask what brings you to my kingdom?" 

"Oh, this'n'that, passing through. Wanna get some ice cream?" 

Bonnibel sighed. "This really isn't the best time. If you would be so kind, please state your intentions." 

"Ooh," Marceline said with mock reluctance, as if Bonnibel had somehow committed a faux pas, "I did that when I popped out of the Night to save you from Simon." 

Beside her, she could positively feel Peppermint Butler vibrating with rage. He thought she didn't know what a syrup–thirsty gumball he was, playing with his dark magics But he was also loyal to a fault.

She remembered being a couple hundred years old when Hunson Abadeer, the Lord of Evil, appeared on the castle drawbridge with a cohort of demons. He had requested to meet the new Candy monarch. Peppermint Butler had taken one look at Bonnibel's ashen face and stepped forward to do his duty, completely unperturbed. She had been desperately relieved when the demon lord settled for playing golf with her butler. Now she could only wonder what negotiations had occurred in her absence and why her butler had summoned the demons. For he must have. 

Had it been Marceline's idea? Some vengeful prank in retaliation over their crumbled friendship? 

To her other side, she heard Finn fidget and she resisted the urge to reassure him. He was a grown man, young but proud of his broad shoulders and unyielding posture. Sometimes, despite his rapidly fading relationship with Phoebe, she would catch him watching her with sorrowful blue eyes. For he continued to style himself as the kingdom's champion and a divided loyalty was untenable. 

"Why are you here?" Bonnibel asked bitingly, running out of patience as she always did around this woman. 

"Looked like the best party in town," Marceline said as if it explained her presence. 

Bonnibel tamped down her growing irritation, that feeling she always got when Marceline was being a pest for no logical reason. Because she knew her former friend — almost more than a friend, once long ago — usually did have a reason. She sequestered the feeling and locked it down, forcing her mouth to form words. 

She looked slightly past Marceline's shoulder and said, "My kingdom has little value, Your Highness. I can think of nothing to offer in exchange for amnesty, but if you have a request, I will consider it." 

"Dude, Bonnie, you're dense as a dum dum." 

The oddly disappointed tone of voice made Bonnibel look, really look. "Pardon me?" 

"If I wanted to waste your kingdom, I wouldn't be all yakking out here on the lawn. I'd be all shock an' awe death raining from above and poof! Melted sugar everywhere," Marceline elaborated, swinging an arm from one side to the other to encompass the field. "Boom! Mushroom candy city, one big caramel crater full of radioactive green goop. And anyway, I couldn't do that to you even if you ordered it." 

Bonnibel parsed what she had said. Half the things Marceline said or sang made no sense, but she accepted that as she accepted Peppermint's well–intentioned manipulations, Finn's less than obvious romantic pining, her court's petty rumors, and the ogres in the forest. Nevertheless, it sounded as if the demon army wasn't here to raze the Candy Kingdom. 

Her eyes widened and she looked to the left at the Lich army amassed outside the outer wall. 

"Oh," she said, a sour feeling in her gut telling her she had done it again and she hated that feeling. "You jerk." 

"Psych!"

The fact was, Bonnibel has nothing against considering the Nightosphere and its ruler as her allies. Yes, many of its citizens were evil. They murdered, raped, terrorized and committed a whole slew of other acts that she imagined people assumed she didn't comprehend. But, they did so within the confines of their kingdom and culture. Morality was relative, unless separate realms that should never overlap did.

Bonnibel had created a library unrivaled in all of Ooo and it contained a small selection of manuscripts that survived from the time of the Mushroom War. Many were inconsequential, containing recipes, food labels, lists of names followed by numerical sequences, advertisements for curious products, and so forth. But a few were considered heresy — blasphemy — and their writers had been executed by hysterical mobs.

One of those ancient scientists had gone on at great length about the influx of demons resulting from the great cataclysm that created Ooo from what once had been a different continent on earth. Indeed, if one had the means, one could still travel to that great crater that had provided direct access to the Nightosphere, as the author claimed. Regardless, demons swarmed the land and interbred with the surviving humans and animals, and it was allegedly their offspring that had inherited Ooo. Besides, other texts claimed that those demons had been exiled back to their realm.

But they agreed that demons had run amok during the immediate aftermath of the war.

Despite her claims to the contrary, Marceline might be staging an incursion from the Nightosphere. Yet it was an irrefutable fact that if she didn't accept the alliance immediately, it would mean her kingdom's destruction. It would result in Ooo's destruction and both she and Marceline had worked so hard to protect the country for all their lives. It was exactly the sort of freedom of choice a demon would offer. It seemed a bit evil to Bonnibel. 

“You're here because…”

“You summoned me. Duh.”

"Indeed. We would be grateful for any assistance," she said. 

She wanted to discuss terms, but Marceline lifted into the air, looping in a circle and that was apparently the signal her army needed. 

They charged toward the waiting Lich army, a thousand screaming, screeching, roaring voices, fire and brimstone in their wake. Before she could stop them, Finn and Jake were off with the group, but the rest of her cohort stayed put. 

She swiveled her head to deliver a reproving glare to Peppermint Butler. “You could have warned me,” she hissed between her teeth.

“Naw, man, I didn't do it!” he whisper–shouted back.

“We'll discuss this later.” Bonnibel raised the enchanted shield on her left arm and the scepter armed with a potion in its tip in her right hand. She turned around to face her troops — a kindness to call them such — and ordered them to form a cordon to protect the castle. With any luck, they wouldn't need to fight. With any luck… 

Bonnibel looked out toward the seething mass of monsters gradually spilling over the outer walls and spotted a glowing, green form darting about overhead. She stood and waited, keeping her place, knowing the candy people needed her too much to take risks. She couldn't see Finn, though she sometimes spotted Jake elongated over the pitched battle. Soon, there were too many flashes of brightly colored lights, too much fire and smoke obscuring the view as the battle inevitably rolled closer. 

Her hands felt glued to her weapons when a massive, horned skull appeared from the smoke. The Lich crawled closer, spotting her, his mandibles hanging open in what passed for a grin. She raised her scepter, pointing it and the potion she had prepared sprayed across the bony face. 

The Lich wailed, clawing as its face began to dissolve and Bonnibel knew there was nothing for it now. He would body–hop and strike again with another face, with only the putrid green glow of his eyes to warn her a split second in advance. She threw down her scepter and it disappeared into the tall grass, jogging forward while drawing her sword so the idiot, rock candy soldiers she had created would follow. 

The smaller monsters proved easy targets, inept at combat, unprepared to face a trained and educated opponent. It was difficult to tell friend from foe and, a few times, Bonnibel felt certain she had cut down an ally. There was no point in dwelling on collateral damage, so she kept swinging her sword and fighting. She would never understand what Finn found so enjoyable about such monotonous destruction. 

There was a lull in battle, a welcome respite, and Bonnibel allowed her over–heated arms to droop under the heavy weight of sword and shield. Her back ached and she squinted to prevent sweat from dripping into her eyes. Past the nose guard of her helmet, she could see a swell of enemy troops backing away from some attacker. Really, it was more like the fleeing of a panicked mob because some were tripping over each other in their haste. 

Marceline swept down from above, raking her terrified foes with violet bolts of energy, darting in to swing her axe in wide arcs spraying bloody carnage in her wake. She laughed in a wretched cackle and some of the soldiers dropped their arms, attempting to flee wholesale. Landing on the ground, jamming one edge of her axe into the sodden ground, she thrust out an arm in the direction of a werewolf. 

The creature stood no chance as a black tentacle wrapped around its midsection, yanking it back like a marionette. It yelped and whined, attempting to shift shape and escape the choking grasp, but Marceline dragged it close, into her arms. She held it tight, one hand under its jaw, and an arm around its chest, holding it from behind. 

Too far away to shout over the din, Bonnibel watched in fascination as Marceline tilted her head and sank her teeth into the werewolf's throat. She stumbled once under its weight, hunching over to keep her mouth locked in place. By the time she finished drinking, she was on one knee and the werewolf was pale and shrunken. Bonnibel wondered how it was that Marceline was strong enough to keep the large monster imprisoned, yet too weak to stand, until Marceline flung her head back. 

She panted, her prehensile, forked tongue wiping blood off her chin, catching a rivulet that began to trickle down along her throat. She stayed that way, lips parted, eyes closed, either unconcerned or unaware of any danger. Then she stood, shakily, dragging the werewolf with her and Bonnibel realized it was still alive, somewhat. Marceline looked in her direction, expression flat and composed, and shoved the freshly made zombie toward her. Behind it, she shot off to create another pool of burnt gore. 

Bonnibel swallowed, tasting bile, though what she had just witnessed could not be as heinous as the rest of the slaughter around her. Nor could she begrudge the respite the zombie guard offered her, catching her breath and pulling her feet free from some part of some body, soggy ground pulling at her boots. Soon enough, the enemy surged back around her and she stayed behind her undead shield until the werewolf fell, hacked to bits. 

Her arms were shaking with exhaustion when she turned to find the green eyes of the Lich far too close to her. She couldn't raise her sword fast enough, but she hoped she didn't scream. Mostly, she was surprised. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. She hadn't dreamt it yet. 

* * *

Bonnibel regained consciousness, blinking, bleary–eyed for a second. Then she held her breath and held still, cataloging her environment. She was in a bed. It felt familiar, the sheets and blanket looked exactly like those in her castle suite. Everything she could see, from her bedside table, lamp, doorway, wardrobe, wall drapes and window were exactly as she remembered. It appeared to be her bedroom. 

She started breathing when her chest began to hurt from the strain and wriggled her toes and fingers. All her limbs were present and accounted for and she didn't feel significantly smaller, though her skin was oddly sensitive. She was even wearing a nightgown. None of it meant she was alive, though. She might be having a vision or croak dream. Any moment, the Cosmic Owl might fly in through the open patio doors and deliver his omen. 

She tried to feel something aside from dull shock and a vague sense of guilt. She had left her kingdom without a reliable heir. No doubt, Lemongrab would attempt to seize power, but there was no way the people would tolerate his rule because he was, in fact, intolerable. How what she considered her finest qualities distilled into that, she would never understand. Was she truly a sour lemon at heart? 

Outside, the wind shifted and the stench of burnt sugar and charred flesh reached her nostrils. She gagged, then coughed, squinting as her eyes watered. Coughing. Why was she coughing? And when she clutched at her throat, she felt the distinct contour of a trachea.

Habituating to the odors, she slowly lowered her hand and noted the ridges of bones, tracings of blood vessels and freckles. There were even tiny hairs, catching the light as she turned her arm. Taking a deeper breath, she felt ribs expand, a brief increase in heart rate, and yanked her covers back to prod at her abdomen. There were definitely squishy organs in there.

She took a better look around her chambers. The remains of her helmet and crown were on her vanity. The white helmet had been crushed flat, one cheek and the nose guard curled like fallen leaves. It was smeared with a brown substance and though crown remained attached, it was lopsided where it had melted, the tall central tine folded in upon itself. 

Bonnibel sat up, reflexively brushing her hair behind her ears. She froze. 

Marceline was sitting in a wingback chair that had been obscured from Bonnibel's sight in her supine position by a bed post. Sunlight from the patio washed over her, apparently without consequence. She was still in her spotless, formal attire, arms splayed over the armrests, legs crossed at the knee. She was motionless except for the absent–minded bob and swing of her raised foot in a red boot. 

Bonnibel paused to think, fingering the strands of hair that ought to have been soft, pliant gum but they definitely weren't. It felt more like keratin, but with somewhat greater elasticity. Letting go, she skimmed her fingers over goose pimples along her arms, feeling the fine, nearly invisible hairs against familiar pink skin. She was vaguely aware of her breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. Something roared in her ears, a white noise with a rhythmic beat. She was choking. 

"Breathe," Marceline ordered urgently, rising from her chair. "Get a grip, Bonnie." 

"I am breathing! Don't lecture me on basic core exercises!" 

She flattened a hand against her chest. It hurt, a wrenching twist beneath her ribs. There was something was in her throat, and a bitter taste in her mouth. She resisted the urge to bend over, to curl in on herself. Instead, she fisted the other hand in her sheets, mentally releasing tension through her fingers until her hand was spread against the silky fabric. 

She inhaled slowly, centering, and dropped the palm from her chest. None of the sensations had been truly alien and it wasn't the first time she had nearly died. Still, they had been so intense. Her nerves felt raw. Undeniably, her body had changed into something horribly organic. 

"You okay now?" Marceline asked, settling back into the chair. 

“Change me back,” Bonnibel gritted out.

“I can't,” Marceline answered in soft apology, but something hung unsaid.

"Okay. What happened?" 

"You got burnt to a crisp. It was pretty final." 

"Yes, I gathered. I meant the outcome of the battle?" 

Marceline snorted derisively. 

Instantly, as if a band had tightened around her head, she felt anger squeezing all rationality out of her thoughts. She compressed her lips to keep unfiltered opinions where they belonged. If nothing else, being irked by Marceline's bad attitude was familiar. 

"If you might, try and communicate in a more civilized manner," Bonnibel bit out the reprimand. 

"Oh, well, I wouldn't want to disappoint such high expectations." 

She looked up, bracing for the tantrum, the shouting, the accusations followed by petulant sulking. 

Marceline's expression was placid, slightly vacant and detached. Her eyes were yellow green, pupils slit against the bright morning sun. Her business suit seemed to suck up the light that touched it — pitch black no matter the angle. She gave a single, measured blink. 

"The Lich got you. I creamed his butt and grabbed your soul before it flew off. We were winning by then, so the rest of 'em surrendered and got gone. Peppermint was flipping out and no one wanted to tell the candy people what happened. But it turned out he would be regent if you died without a declared heir and no one wanted the Lemongrabs, so he asked for my help," Marceline answered, a wary note in her voice. “Not that he needed to.”

Bonnibel watched a faint plume of smoke rising in the distance. She suspected there had been less asking and more bargaining, but it was a moot point. "Some survived?" 

"A bunch. Most of them melted. The view outside is pretty crap." 

Bonnibel nodded, sliding the pieces into place. She wanted to look, but if she did, her subjects would spot her. They needed to see their queen, not a young woman with messy hair wearing a nightgown. 

As if he had been summoned by their discussion, there was a perfunctory knock at the chamber door before Peppermint Butler entered. He carried a tray with several covered dishes and set it on the bedside table. Lifting the dome covers, he revealed steaming soup, some pound cake and a glass of sweet juice. 

"Your Highness," he greeted her, a bit meekly with a smile and bow. "It is good to see you well." 

Then he turned to consider Marceline. After an awkward delay, he gave a stilted bow and departed without another word. 

Bonnibel frowned, wondering if he had cause for the snub. She couldn't fault his machinations. Though she was his creator, she had been young as well and Peppermint had always treated her with deference and concern. If there was one thing the butler did without fail, it was sensing evil and malevolence. 

Bonnibel felt her lips twitch into an involuntary smile at his silence. 

"Didn't think you'd have much to smile about," Marceline said inquisitively. 

"It's the irony," Bonnibel explained. "My parents died the last time the Lich laid siege." 

"Yeah, I know. I was there." 

"You and Billy, battling on the front lines before you both disappeared. Him to his cave, too disenchanted to continue. You to go on vacation and hang out on a cantina on some island." 

“Hey, what can I say? The dolphin surfing was awesome.” Marceline smirked but it faded quickly. “I figured you needed some space. Didn't realize that still bothered you.”

“Only in that you keep running off every time the going gets tough around here.”

Marceline's expression morphed into ferocity, all teeth and blazing eyes. “I was running to, not from!”

Bonnibel jerked back against her pillows.

“Nothing you tried was working,” Marceline continued, expression fading into something more human. “He fooled you good this time, and you know it.”

Bonnibel sat back up cautiously, resting her new elbows behind her knees, feeling bones press together uncomfortably. “Yeah. I know but–”

“He's an arch–demon, Bon. He never belonged on this plane and the permanent solution was obvious.” Marceline's lips pressed into a grim line as her foot bobbed to an inaudible beat. She sighed and said, "I ordered for you. Didn't want them bringing you nothing but a bunch of cake and candy." 

Bonnibel's stomach growled as if agreeing with the notion, so she picked up a spoon and the bowl of soup. It was salty, savory and contained bits of…of meat. She gagged. She held the back of her hand against her mouth, turning her face away from the bowl. 

"You're not gonna be able to get by on sugar, Bonnie." 

She felt hot, wet moisture collecting in her eyes, breaking loose to trail down her cheeks and drip down her nose and chin. She supposed it was the cumulative shock. She shouldn't be crying. She had been in combat on many occasions, often with Marceline by her side. 

Marceline sighed and it was like claws being raked over her last nerve. 

She clutched the sides of her head. "Glob–" 

Marceline placed a cool hand on her shoulder. "At least you're still pink, so quit sniveling." 

"Not all of us grew up beating up and murdering people for entertainment!" She brushed the hand off her shoulder, shrugging backward for emphasis. There were times when she loathed the vampire's inhuman speed and stealth. 

Marceline took several steps back as if the words had been a physical blow. 

She would need time to become accustomed to this new body but she would, undoubtedly be denied the luxury. Her kingdom required strong, commanding leadership in its time of crisis, but she made no effort to restrain the tears that continued to fall. Grief was cathartic, she told herself. It was also a waste of time. 

She considered what little Marceline had told her thus–far and asked, gesturing to herself, "Why did you do it?" 

The vampire shrugged. 

"Why?" she demanded more forcefully. “Why can't you undo it?”

"Because you need an heir and haven't been able to cook one up in your lab."

“And the second question?”

“Because it would revoke the contract that let me come here.”

Narrowing her eyes, Bonnibel took a deep breath, careful not to hyperventilate again. She moved cautiously, sliding out one leg, then the other, placing her feet on the cool, tile floor. So, she had experienced a minor physical makeover. But her people needed their queen and this was no time for self–pity. Nor was it time to puke up her luncheon, even a revolting one. She stood and went to her wardrobe and pulled out a robe to buy herself time. It seemed that her new body came with a steep price tag. 

Tying her sash, she asked, "What if I refuse it?" 

"Huh?" 

"This body. This unspecified contract. What if I refuse it? What if I dem…request a closer approximation of my former body?" 

Marceline answered with a nervous chuckle. 

"I mean it." 

"Look," Marceline drawled, stretching her arms, hands clasped overhead. "You were always part candy and part human. I just made the human part bigger, is all." 

"Proportionally?" 

"You're still a legit candy person but human enough so you can fix that heir problem the easy way, if you feel like it. 'course. But you gotta get over that squick, Bonnie." 

"No, I do not. I am not obligated to pursue the matter in any way other than I see fit." 

She was proud of her composure despite the way her skin flushed with heat, and sweat breaking out in a number of places. There had once been an extensive Bubblegum family line. Over the centuries, their numbers had dwindled. The Lich had destroyed the rest. She hadn't much choice except to try and cook up an heir in a laboratory, unable to bud out offspring the way her parents had. She was surprised that Marceline even understood genetics. Or was it that she simply observed the long–term results of interbreeding, had witnessed other examples of human blood dwindling until it disappeared? 

“The only reason I contained human DNA at all is due to my parents eating habits, and you know it. You still haven't answered the question!”

“The only thing I can do is change it back, get it? Back to a black ball of tar in the dirt.” Marceline sprang out of the chair to face her. “And it revokes the contract that let me come here on my own, so that means the Lich goes free again. Is that what you want?”

"I'm not certain how you expected me to react." Bonnibel rubbed her fingers together absently, absorbing the sensation, contemplating her new reality and possible mortality. For, humans always aged and died. Yet the alternative was unacceptable.

Marceline circled her idly, looking her over, then bared her teeth. "I expected you to thank me, at least as a matter of courtesy." 

Bonnibel tracked her movements, holding still, worrying her hands until she noticed. If she had heard such a demand when she were younger, she would have missed the insinuation. She couldn't decide if Marceline expected her to catch it or if she was making a plain threat — a habit born among the customs of her people. Most likely, she was laughing at another bit of sly innuendo she expected Bonnibel to miss. 

She picked up the bowl of soup, to try eating again and said, "Thank you." 

Marceline did not offer the traditional response, returning instead to the chair she had vacated. 

After a few minutes, the clink of her spoon and sounds of her sipping the broth became awkward. She knew that the vampire could sit motionless for a very long time compared to a normal person, but there had once been a companionable silence to it.

She set down her bowl. Her hunger had abated but her guts churned. "How long will you be staying?" 

"Long as I want," Marceline said in a whimsical tone, resting her head on her fist, making no effort to disguise her frank attention. 

"I see. And how long is that?" she pressed. She resolved to ignore the blatantly heated look. It was ultimately harmless and Marceline was far from the first, and wouldn't be the last, person to admire her. 

"I missed you, Bonnie," she said, instead of answering, a smile curving her lips. 

She looked at Marceline's smile, took in the friendly banter and her attitude. It was as if nothing ever changed for her, as if they were still friends, both trapped in eternal youth. It was as if she failed to notice the growing divide between them. It was akin to having her emotions invalidated, dismissed by overbearing arrogance. She wondered how she had ever found that cocksure bluster attractive. 

"Are you going to sit around in my bed chamber and feign complete ignorance of rampaging demons, monsters and zombies over the past few years? Am I supposed to pretend you aren't responsible merely because you graced me with your benevolence for a change of pace?" 

Marceline's face phased, her nostrils flaring as her eyes reddened and her ears pinned backwards. "I won't claim I wasn't indirectly responsible for those events, but I didn't instigate them." 

"Forgive me but I'm skeptical by nature."

“The Lich was summoning them. It was hard for me to keep up at the same time I was learning my job. Dad never taught me much.”

“And you come now? At the last minute? If you were out here, catching demons–”

“No, I wasn't up here. It doesn't work that way!” Marceline began to rise, took a visibly calming breath, then settled back down into the cushions. “I need to be summoned, and no one did.” Marceline's expression didn't change, the faint quirk of her lips a habit. "Besides, you asked me to leave you alone, remember?" 

"Yes," she confirmed. Time apart had helped, but the reason hadn't changed. Bonnibel glanced at the amulet before she could stop herself. “Technically, you ignored my request.”

"Yeah," Marceline agreed in what sounded like an exhausted sigh. Her lips tipped into a frown, fangs denting her lower lip. "Like my dad always said, 'You gotta take what you want, baby'." 

And with that, Bonnibel's stagnant anger dissolved into unease. Automatically, she scanned her room for weapons. She wasn't dealing with an old man made incompetent by insanity. As experienced a man as Finn was, she wouldn't wager on him in a battle against Marceline. She returned her gaze and saw something unexpected. 

Marceline's face was etched with pain and she was shaking her head slowly. 

"You've changed, Marcy," she said in defense. She wouldn't apologize for a rational response. 

"Yeah. Guess it had to happen sometime, huh?" 

"If that's how you justify sending out raiding parties to murder, rape and pillage, then yes." 

Marceline inhaled deeply, exhaling a faint stream of smoke or steam. "I didn't send them. I told you;I went home. I went home and I…I took the amulet from my dad and there was a lot of fuss and bother afterwards." 

Bonnibel raised her eyebrows. "Fuss and bother?" 

"Chaos and destruction might be better words," she admitted. 

Wrapping one arm around her stomach, Bonnibel used it as a rest for her elbow and propped her chin on her hand, finger curled over her lips. She tried to imagine Marceline leading a revolution or coup, but her mind balked at the idea of anything more violent than the Nightosphere itself. And the truth was, there hadn't been a demonic incursion in at least a year. 

"How's your father doing?" 

Marceline turned her head mechanically, answering with wooden silence as if she had been asked an inordinately stupid question. Then she looked back out the patio doorway. 

"I'm sorry for your loss," Bonnibel said automatically. 

"No, you're not. He was evil." 

"Now who's being presumptuous?" 

Marceline drew her legs back out of their sprawl as if she meant to rise. "Screw it. I don't know why I thought this time would be any different. Sorry for helping. You obviously didn't want it." 

Bonnibel wheeled to block her in, scowling. "After a great deal of consideration, I have determined that the Lich had nothing to gain by attacking the Candy Kingdom first. We've nothing of value and do not occupy a prime defensive position. Either their attack was arbitrary or a feint in pursuit of another target entirely," she finished meaningfully. 

"No shit," agreed Marceline, but she didn't pick up the conversational thread. She leaned heavily on her knees, perched on the edge of the chair. 

Bonnibel raised her chin and squared her shoulders. She was a grateful, but that didn't make her a marshmallow. She waited. 

"The Lich wasn't after you, this time. They were after me." 

Oh Glob, it was the Ice King all over again. "And should I expect another attempt soon?" 

"Nah. He submitted to my dominion. I mean, not unless you refuse…" Marceline waved faintly toward Bonnibel. 

Bonnibel simultaneously frowned while raising an eyebrow at the implication that a battle that had decimated her people was little more than some variety of a coronation ceremony. The kingdom would be extremely vulnerable to attack while her people rebuilt the city and she replaced her populace. Again.

Marceline seemed content to remain still and quiet in the chair, a living fossil. She didn't breathe, didn't blink, didn't twitch. The only motion was the slow, fluctuating glow of the gemstone from the amulet that denoted her rank. Most of the royal gemstones, those pieces of the Enchiridion, refracted light. Few glowed with raw power and she wondered if that would be how Marceline ended. 

Bonnibel would die one day, if not from age than murder or accident. The Cosmic Owl would hoot his dream and the ruler would go. Somewhere. She wasn't sure where, but it wasn't really death and it defied scientific explanation. She shuffled away her discomfort with that concept. No, she would die and she was glad because she had seen what immortality did to an old man named Simon, and maybe now, her oldest friend as well. Ordinary people weren't meant to live forever; the mind couldn't cope. 

So she tried not to stare at the amulet and wonder if it was how Marceline would go. She was already a stranger despite a few years. She had been gone for years before and never changed from a young woman desperately clinging to anger, singing away her grief, even if Bonnibel had been too young to see it when they first met. Then she went away for a handful years and came back like this. If only she could see through that practiced noncholance and see the inner workings of her mind.

Bonnibel jerked in pain, clasping her head at the sudden stabbing headache, at the colors that seemed too bright swirling in front of her eyes. She gasped, more of a hiss, and stumbled backwards. Then it stopped, as sudden as it had begun. 

"Sorry," murmured Marceline, turning her head as it were on ball–bearings. "Reflex. You could just ask, you know." 

"Sure, but then you'd probs to lie to me, or avoid answering like you've been doing since you got here. Is that what your life is now? Deceit and manipulation, but no longer as pranks and for laughs?" 

"My life? You mean, my immortal death times two? It's never–ending paperwork, all filed in triplicate, the coffee is always cold, I've got appointments all week long, three–hour meetings, my secretary is too busy fucking the courier to do her job and I have to play golf with Death. Golf!" Marceline repeated furiously, making a rude gesture with her fingers. "Do you know how boring golf is? I could shove a nine iron through my skull!" 

Bonnibel leaned toward Marceline carefully. A lecture about accepting duties and responsibilities would be misplaced, but that wasn't the sole issue. "If you hate it so much, why did you do it? Why not confront your father over the Lich and get him to take care of it? I thought Hunson could do the job forever, if necessary." 

Marceline's frown deepened, her fangs denting gray flesh. Her lips and cheeks were flushed from her temper, blood coloring the skin though it couldn't have been pumped by a shriveled heart. Her eyes were a deep red slits, bright against inky black as she met Bonnibel's gaze in consideration. 

"Do you believe in prophecy?" she asked. 

The scientist in Bonnibel wanted to say no, that events recorded as the product of prophecies were retroactively warped to fit the words. Unfortunately, experience with the Enchiridion and beings such as the Cosmic Owl and the Lich had taught her otherwise. 

"Yes." 

Maintaining eye contact, Marceline shrugged as if she might unburden herself. 

Bonnibel withheld her congratulations, nor did she try to praise Marceline for assuming her adult responsibilities. Truthfully, she couldn't imagine what it was like to accept an immortal office. It was far more than ruling a single kingdom and dealing with its quarreling neighbors. She also didn't miss that Marceline had avoided stating her motivation, despite implying she had been acting upon a preordained schedule. 

"That sucks," she said instead. 

Marceline grunted, standing up in a fluid motion, which brought her back into the sun that had been creeping its way across the tile floor. Standing there, backlit against the morning sun, she was a tall, slinky blot with red eyes. The amulet pulsed again, briefly casting inverted light upon her calm face. 

It forced Bonnibel to look up. "You do have my sympathy, Marcy." 

With a warning rumble deep in her throat, Marceline's face shifted until her eyes were yellow with red, narrow pupils, pointy ears flattened backwards and a gratuitous number of fangs in her mouth. "I didn't come here for your sympathy, Your Highness." 

Bonnibel raised her chin back up and put aside her own deplorable state of dress, the likelihood she was in complete dishabille, and their location. She had known the vampire too long to be frightened by her theatrics. "Oh, well, if we're going to use titles, please forgive my poor manners La–, er, Lord Abadeer." 

"It's 'lady' if you're going to use my name." 

She cursed the flush she felt at her faux pas. "Lady Abadeer, then. You have done this kingdom a great service, more generous in that it was unsought and misinterpreted. Moreover, I am–" 

"Oh, Glob, stop before I puke. I get it. Yeah, I saved your kingdom, saved your life and fixed your heir problem even though it grosses you out. I had to do it because the Lich wanted to rule the Nightosphere but was happy to take over your bod and rule Ooo as a consolation prize. There. I said it for you. You're welcome. I'm going." 

"No, you are not! Do you think it's easy knowing I can't just run off when things get too lumping hard? Is that why you always do it for me? You think you're doing me a favor?" 

"It's what you asked me to do." 

"Do you think I wanted to say it? You're older than me. You had social experiences — a whole society — and you couldn't see the truth?" 

Marceline's face contorted. "Of course I could. It's why I went home." Her expression continued to twist in wrath, becoming more hideous as she stalked towards the patio. "But even that isn't good enough for you." 

"I'm indebted to you," Bonnibel repeated forcefully, shaking her head in negation. “But I never asked you to prove anything to me.”

"No," Marceline said, her face conveying a mocking grin, "you're indebted to the Lord of Evil." 

"Ah," Bonnibel said as the last puzzle piece fell into place. She had failed to note the distinction, ironic really, but she wasn't accustomed to Marceline behaving as royalty. Every treaty and alliance was based on achieving a compromise between disparate needs, on maneuvering between selfish desires. She was rather pleased with her own composure. "And what sort of recompense does the Lord of Evil expect?" 

Marceline had made it to the patio door, but she stopped, hanging her head. Her visage returned to its more humanoid configuration. She sighed loudly enough to be heard across the room. "The usual." 

Bonnibel sucked in her breath through her teeth, despite having expected the answer. As an ancient prophet once said, 'Think fast, motherfucker'. Between demonic beings and mortal women, 'the usual' almost always meant one thing. So, the motive was bared and she experienced a moment of unabashed fury at the injustice. It wasn't fair. It truly wasn't fair. Her kingdom for a nail, she told herself but it couldn't stop the litany of German epithets. 

She finished shouting by the time she caught up with a cringing Marceline. "And if I refuse?" 

"I've already helped you, you can't refuse," Marceline gritted out, fangs glinting in the sun as she winced. “Seriously, Bon, I'm starting to feel like a broken record.”

"I mean, how would that even work?" she clarified, although they both knew she wouldn't sacrifice her dynasty and lineage over such a personal thing as fear. “Do I pick some random dude?”

“Um, it has to be mine.”

Bonnibel knotted her brows. “You want me to do a genetic recombo using some of my equipment or–”

“It has to be born of a human and I'm dead,” Marceline explained woodenly.

Bonnibel grimaced. “I need to actually…”

"Is it really that squicky?" 

"It's not…I mean…I've never…Oh Glob, I'm stuttering." She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, then looked Marceline in the face, shielded by her shadow. "You know perfectly well that is not how candy people procreate. I have read about it and Rainicorn is a gigantic blabbermouth, but it's different. I'm also well aware that you…I'm sorry, but you can't just take what you want." 

"Funny thing, Bonnie, that's true. I couldn't just march an army out of the Nightosphere because I wanted to. I needed special dispensation. It had to be carried by the board and approved by Death and the Cosmic Owl and guess what?" Marceline shouted, "There was only one acceptable reason and I wasn't going to watch you die being a hero!" 

She swallowed stiffly. The bitter injustice left a hollow tang in her gut, but she understood. Bonnibel was many things, but first and foremost, she was a politician. "I see. You're proposing a long–term alliance." 

"More like it's a done deal." 

Bonnibel nodded. She had wondered what the price would be for accepting aid in battle and she had expected it would be something she did not want to give. That was how demons worked. 

"It's hardly romantic," she said. 

Marceline smirked sadly. "I'm sure Finn would be happy to lead you through it." 

"No!" 

"Really?" As she spoke, Marceline leaned in subtly, tilting her head to inhale deeply. 

"Marcy, stop." 

Marceline held up placating hands. "Wasn't doing nothing." 

"You were trying to vamp me." She pressed two fingers to her temple, feeling it throb. "Good Glob, Marcy! Do you have any tact at all?" 

Baring a single fang in a lop–sided smile, Marceline said, "If I wanted to vamp you, you'd be naked on the bed and wake up tomorrow with a wicked hangover. I think I'm being pretty tactful by going home." 

Bonnibel bit the inside of her cheek, feeling the increased fleshiness with her tongue. "Just because I'm aware of your feelings towards me doesn't mean I'll, uh, you know." 

"Fuck?" 

"Thank you for your finesse," she said dryly, "but will that be necessary?" 

"No,” Marceline assured solemnly, the corners of her lips tugging downward.

Some of the tension binding her shoulders bled away and Bonnibel sagged in place, indulging in a moment of self–pity. "It is, but I'm not asking. I know my duty." 

"Ugh, buzz kill," opined Marceline. 

"About time," she groused in exasperation, before frowning as her mind had continued to whir away with the details. She had a nagging, unpleasant suspicion. "But how would Finn know, either?" She wrinkled her nose, wishing the books she had found had more useful pictures. "I guess Jake could have told him but he's a dog and Lady's a rainicorn. Strictly on a mechanical level–" 

Marceline made an awkward noise, fidgeting in place, the motion contrasting starkly with her prior poise. She scratched the back of her neck, raising her eyes at the ceiling. 

"Oh," Bonnibel said and cursed her tendency to blush."I thought he and Flame Princess…?" 

Raising a shoulder in a laconic shrug, Marceline said, "There's some junk they can't do. He asked me about it one day and Jake practically shoved him in my lap, bitching about him and Pheobe being on the splits again." 

"And you…you just…?" Bonnibel shook her head, confounded. "Do you have no ethical boundaries?" 

“That's rich, coming from you.” Marceline raised her eyebrows. "He's human," she said bluntly as if that explained everything.

"So?" 

"Humans really like sex and he can't get any with hot stuff, he can't get any with you and all his friends are hooking up and I've just told you more than he wants you to know." She opened her mouth as if she intended to explain further, then gave a brief shake of her head. "The important thing is, if you wanna try out getting laid for, like, research or something, he's your best bet." 

"Because he's had a good coach?" Bonnibel asked, pursing her lips. 

"The best, babe." 

She wondered how many years it had taken Marceline to perfect her stupefyingly condescending arrogance. "Well, that explains his poor mood recently." 

Bonnibel felt that was more diplomatic than saying, 'gigantic flaming hissy fit that left Finn crying on her couch for a week'. If it weren't for the underlying topic, Bonnibel might have dismissed the confession for the admission of insensitivity and cavalier amusement it seemed to be. She would have in the past, and made a mental note to review prior instances in a more suspicious light. Consequently, she didn't take the remark at face value and she focused on Marceline's motive rather than her own appalled disgust. 

Logically, it seemed Marceline had deliberately led Finn astray to destabilize his relationship with the Flame Princess and to free him as a potential suitor. The situation would be salvageable with sufficient apologies and remonstration, but she was honest enough to admit she would refrain from interfering unless Finn asked for her help. She was sympathetic toward the couple, more deeply than Finn realized, but could not to this day fully, comfortably condone the risk to all of Ooo. He was, quite literally, playing with fire. 

She allowed herself to look, not quite admire, but look at Marceline and fought not to be a hypocrite. If she didn't choose a human, her children or grandchildren would run straight back into the problem of genetic dilution. But there were kinder and tidier ways to handle the situation than by the method Marceline was suggesting. Moments like this, she genuinely wondered how demons normally conducted their relationships. She was certain she didn't want to know more than she did. 

Because she was looking, she noticed how Marceline's skin followed a gradient of violet, gray and white, smooth and even unlike the mottled appearance of a corpse. Her cheekbones cut a line that threw a shadow, her lips full, eyes set under winged brows. A sinuous lock of hair cast a shadow across half her face so that one eye glowed faintly. Was Marceline's beauty natural or a product of shifting?

She didn't realize she was staring until she noticed the ruddy tinge to the tip of the single visible ear. She pulled her gaze away and chided herself for allowing Marceline to change the subject. "But we were discussing what I owe you." 

"We can discuss the details later, like, when you're more comfortable about it all," Marceline demurred, her voice rasping until she cleared her throat. 

"No. Your idea of later might be years from now," Bonnibel got out quickly, grabbing Marceline's tie in a fit of courage. "Then, one day you'll show up and it'll be a total drama bomb, so I'd rather know now. Well, I mean, you already told me but I'm trying to negotiate better terms." 

"There isn't much leeway. I'm sort of bound by tradition here, Bonnie." Marceline made no attempt to make her let go, but her tongue snaked out, whipping the air in front of Bonnibel's nose. She added sarcastically, "You do get tradition, right?" 

"Traditionally, monarchs can compromise because they're considered equals." She swallowed, biting her lip, then slid her hand up to grasp the amulet and pulled. 

"Um, you know I'm–" 

It came free more easily than she expected and Bonnibel stumbled back a step, startled by the amulet's weight as it sucked the suit off Marceline's body. The vampire hissed, her hair fanning out as a shield before the patio door slammed shut of its own accord. 

"Oh dear." 

Marceline was floating several inches above the floor, wearing nothing but a smile with green eyes crinkled in humor. She held out her hand, palm up. “As I was saying, I'm naked under the fake clothes.”

Bonnibel tucked the amulet in her hands behind her back, knowing perfectly well she was turning red as a cinnamon ball. 

Marceline laughed, a warm, rich, friendly laugh. "You look like you're gonna blow your top," she said, her smile mutating into a familiar lop–sided smirk. "Awful tempting color," she drawled. 

"No!" Bonnibel hopped backwards, eyes skittering past Marceline's body, then back again. It was her. It was still the irreverent Marcy she remembered, though she had merely glimpsed that body in bits and pieces during the years that they traveled together. 

"Are you sure?" Marceline taunted. 

"No!" Bonnibel held out the amulet, practically throwing it back, not caring if she seemed rude. She really should have taken into account this possibility, but she had wanted to see if the Marcy she remembered was still there underneath all the black and glower. Besides, Hunson had worn clothes underneath his suit so what was she supposed to think? 

Marceline gamely returned the amulet to her neck, her clothing reappeared and her booted feet landed audibly on the tile floor. "Should I be insulted? Because I'm feeling pretty insulted." 

At that moment, Bonnibel was aware of several things simultaneously. She was incredibly embarrassed, felt hot enough to melt, her palms were sweating, her heart apparently had some sort of nefarious escape plan, some other sensation she couldn't place in her guts and she rather wanted Marceline to remove the amulet again. She was also staring at her lips once more. 

"No," she repeated a third time, incongruously picturing Marceline with Finn and feeling, well, a bit lime green about it all. 

Had he been as bold and brash as he was in combat, or had he been shy, allowing Marceline to lead? She imagined her curling her tongue around his throat, hair falling in a curtain around them both and soft cries, rising in volume. She pushed the unfamiliar thoughts aside, tamping down on the odd note of panic and ignored the rapid tempo of her heart. 

She looked up to catch Marceline staring at her neck, lips parted, the tip of her forked tongue visible. She remembered the vampire sinking to her knees on the battlefield and her breath caught. 

The sound jerked Marceline to attention, her ill–fitting, professional mask slipping back in place. 

"I haven't heard you play in a long time," Bonnibel said instead of everything else she was thinking. "I have my old guitar." 

Marceline blinked several times at the abrupt change of topic. "Seriously? You'll do it for a song?" 

"Well, second–born, not the first because I'll need that as my own heir and no, not for a song," Bonnibel said in a rush, avoiding eye contact. "It's been ages since I heard you play." 

She held her breath, praying for composure and heard twin pops of displaced air. Then she heard the warbling twang of Marceline's bass, the modified red battle axe having appeared in her hands. Bonnibel looked at her bed from where she had heard the acoustic guitar appear. Taking a hint, she picked it up. Perching on the edge of the bed, her hands automatically checked its tuning. 

"So long as it's my first, it don't matter." 

Bonnibel swallowed, mouth dry, processing that last requirement. She tried to speak but her mind came to a sluggish, jumbled halt for a second. There was dust on the guitar and she wiped it away for something to do, somewhere to look. There wasn't a pick, either, but she would manage despite the soft, new skin of her hands. 

"And if I die before I can–" 

"You won't." 

The statement was too flat to be arrogant, or some promise of always being able to protect her as if she were a wayward child. She nodded slowly. The common bargain went back to antiquity. The Nightosphere version must have equally ancient, rusty but iron–clad statutes. But she wouldn't make any assumptions; it is her future that is being bartered more deftly than the Ice King could ever have achieved. She felt she ought to be more outraged about it all but, then again, she had chosen to be in service to the crown. 

Bonnibel was all too aware of being watched and that Marceline had crept closer. "Death and the Cosmic Owl are forbidden from interfering?" 

"Pretty much. There are some, like, floppin' old rules about it." 

She nodded because that was something she understood readily. "Could you provide me a copy of the relevant documentation?" 

"Oh, yeah," Marceline mumbled, snapped her fingers and two fluttering sheets of parchment bearing ornate script landed on the bed. 

Bonnibel glanced over them, indicating she meant to read the entire contract, then began to skim. She was as careful as possible, although bore in mind that she was already partially bound by her actions. The agreement was more or less what she expected, but with one surprising boon. 

She made no effort to disguise her apprehension, asking, "Then if I wish to wait, I can? Death will wait for me and…" There was no help for it; the question had to be asked. "And, you will respect my decision?" 

Marceline's nonchalance slipped, pain leaking through every crack as her eyes flared red and her bass issued a discordant, involuntary twang from where her hand rested. She silenced it quickly with the flat of her palm, but tendrils of her hair curled about like so many vipers. "You still think–" 

"Forgive me for asking, Marcy, but your methods thus far have been abhorrent, to say the least." 

"Are you calling me a butt?" 

"Yes." 

Marceline's face crumpled further into anger for a moment, fangs elongating before she clamped her mouth shut with an audible click. "I'm trying to be nice," she gritted out, words slurred slightly by the mouthful of teeth. 

"I know. You do things differently in the Nightosphere." She saw Marceline open her mouth and continued quickly, adding, "How do I sign this?" 

"Gimme your hand," Marceline said brusquely, reaching with her own. 

She hesitated and saw that flicker of hurt again on Marceline's face, quickly banished behind her ill–fitting professional veneer. Bonnibel held out her arm, letting her hand go limp as Marceline clasped it gently. Lifting it to her lips, she sank one fang into the pad of Bonnibel's thumb. She braced for the sting of pain, but there was none. 

"Press your thumb to the parchment." 

She did so, leaving a partly smeared print, watching as her name appeared beside it, along with a date. The document phased for a moment, tripling itself, then two copies disappeared. She squeezed the tiny wound shut, numb from the vampire's venomous canine glands. By the time Bonnibel turned back to face Marceline, the vampire had regained her poise and normal appearance. 

"Will you ever visit?" 

"You'll need to summon me," Marceline murmured, ducking her head, allowing black hair to curtain her eyes as she pushed up off the floor and drifted. 

Bonnibel bit her lip, chewing on the bottom one. "Okay." 

"Are you really mad at me?" Marceline asked quietly. 

Bonnibel looked at her crown resting crookedly on her vanity. It was so much heavier than a tiara. She looked down at the guitar in her arms, curling her fingers to pick out a chord. 

"Tell me about Simon," she asked, cursing how tremulous her voice sounded, strumming her guitar to drown it out. 

Marceline smiled sadly, picked out an accompaniment and began to sing a lilting lullaby.


End file.
